


Petrichor

by eyrianone



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, F/M, Female Friendship, Friendship, Male Friendship, Romance, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4407887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyrianone/pseuds/eyrianone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War rages and there is shocking news from home.  Men closer than brothers will stop at nothing to get each other through them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

_Pet-ri-chor:_ The scent of the earth after the first rain in a long, dry period.

 

It’s a dangerous process, getting news to the musketeers’ encampment. Buried as it is deep within Spanish territory, keeping the lines of communication open between Paris and the front has proven difficult at best. Seven months of conflict has seen varying degrees of success, but this missive carries a royal seal – which means any and all means have been thus employed in order to deliver it.

Inside his somewhat shabby command tent, Athos instantly notices the traces of dried blood at the messenger’s temple. There is exhaustion evident in the weary set of the young man’s shoulders, but he hands over his small cargo with an undisguised air of pride and satisfaction.

“You came alone?” Athos asks.

The young messenger nods, “I was shot at on the road,” he says, “And I had to take several detours that cost the best part of two days in order to escape an ambush - but the Queen herself charged me with this personally. She told me I _had_ to get it through to you, Captain…No matter what. And here I am.”

_The Queen?_

At the mention of her Majesty, Athos becomes equal parts puzzled and concerned, dismissing the young messenger at once with a distracted wave of his hand. Staring down at the small folded parchment he turns it over and studies it worriedly. Missives from Paris are never from any other but Minister Treville - containing updated orders and battle reports from other regiments. What can it mean that this one has come directly to him from the Queen herself? Athos retreats to the back of the tent and what passes for his desk – a worn plank of wood balanced securely between two tree stumps. Sitting on it he breaks the ornate wax seal without further delay, scanning the contents rapidly.

The Queen’s hand is elegant and practiced – beautiful, as she is. Her news however is anything but, and Athos finds his stomach lurching as he reads, dread settling like an unbearable heavy weight inside him. His heart aches in a manner he’d thought was long past its capacity to do.

Frustrated, the musketeers’ Captain closes his light eyes and sighs heavily. What she’s asking of him is irregular, highly irregular. It will be hard to defend, a request that he shouldn’t grant, shouldn’t even consider with the country in the midst of a war. And it’s a request – clearly. It hasn’t come from the King or Treville, it’s a personal plea in all reality, and exactly what she and she alone would request that he do.

Athos realizes he can only obey it. To deny this . . . Well he knows full well it would cost him everything that he has left that he holds of value.

He calls for assistance and his groom appears instantly in the tent’s opening.

“Sir?”

“Laurent, where is d’Artagnan?”

The groom shrugs, “Not returned yet from the scouting mission you send him on, Captain,” he replies.

“What of Porthos?”

The groom grins. “Oh, he’s eating.”

“Fetch him to me,” Athos says. “Do it urgently.”

Laurent nods, “At once, Captain.”

Athos paces while he waits on his brother’s arrival, small diminishing circles that merely give his body something to do. He wishes for the hundredth time that Aramis were here, that he’d come back to them when they asked him to. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Porthos’ council, or even needs it - his decision is already made, but Aramis’ gentle nature would break this news so much easier and the ache of missing him is always sharper at moments like this.

It’s at most a couple of minutes before a shadow so large it blocks all the light is cast across the tent’s floor and Athos looks up to find Porthos has arrived.

Porthos takes a single look at the stricken look on his friend’s face before striding inside – all larger than life concern instantly.

“Athos – what is it?” he asks gently, large, warm palm coming to rest on Athos’ shoulder. “Laurent said you got a communication from Paris? I take it that it’s not good news?”

Athos shakes his head, then silently hands Porthos the parchment in his hand. Better for Porthos to read the news himself - he thinks, especially when he isn’t sure he trusts his voice not to fail him.

Just as he did, Athos notices Porthos pales with the news. Shaking his head as if to clear it, the big man looks up and meets his commander’s gaze with fear shining in the depths of his dark brown eyes. Athos’ swallows heavily, because Porthos is only afraid of one thing.

“I didn’t even know she was pregnant,” he says stunned. “D’Artagnan . . . he never mentioned anything.”

Athos bites his lip, “I fear he didn’t know either.”

Porthos frowns. “But surely . . . surely in one of her letters . . . she would have said something.”

_She should have said something._

“Constance is smart enough to know how much he would want to be there. How being apart from her is already incredibly hard for him – more than it is for any of the rest of us. We’ve been soldiers far longer, and d’Artagnan has never endured a campaign before. He might be a born fighter, a natural musketeer, but he’s also the only one of us with a wife waiting for him.”

The words hang heavily in the air, the implication clear.

Everyone loves Constance - truly. And it’s plain to see how well matched d’Artagnan and his bride are. Both are fearless and spirited, brave and loyal, but where d’Artagnan can be impulsive and reckless, Constance is reasoned and rational. They’re perfect for each other and the depth of their love undeniable. But marrying a musketeer . . .

“Are you gonna let him go?” Porthos asks quietly. The look on his face tells Athos his own opinion, but there’s deference in his tone anyway.

Without pause, Athos nods. “I owe him this,” he answers simply.

“We,” Porthos stresses, “We owe them both,” he says. “And besides,” he continues, “If you don’t let him go and then they . . . “Porthos trails off but the rest of his sentence is there as if he’d spoken the words aloud anyway.

 _Die - they die._ Athos drops Porthos’ gaze and stares at his boots, he sends up a silent prayer to a God he finds himself barely believing in – for his little brother’s sake. The mere idea that d’Artagnan is on the verge of losing both his love and his child is just too heartbreaking. Most especially for Athos who knows only too well how much d’Artagnan is like him, how similar they are in how very deep their emotions run. Athos can’t escape the fact that he knows his little brother could never completely recover from it. Anne isn’t even dead – just impossibly lost to him, almost six years and it’s still like he’s missing a piece of his soul.

“Where is d’Artagnan anyway?” Porthos asks, dragging Athos’ thoughts back to the present, “Shouldn’t he be back by now?”

Athos nods, “I expect him any moment.”

Porthos looks thoughtful; chewing on his lower lip until Athos guesses the question that’s burning through the bigger man’s brain.

“I can’t spare you,” he says sadly, schooling his face to sternness.

Porthos returns the look with a fierceness that would cow a lesser man.

“Just let me make sure he makes it out of Spanish territory alive,” Porthos pleads. “He won’t be thinking straight, Athos – the minute you give him the news he’ll be at risk of being ruled by that reckless nature of his. Now that’s all well and good if he’s safe back on French soil – but you have to let me get him to the border. Two days, Athos. I’d be gone no more than two days I swear it.”

“He’s not just a farm boy anymore, Porthos,” Athos retorts. “He’s-“

“Our brother,” Porthos interrupts. “He’s our brother, Athos.”

The two men stare each other down for a long moment before Athos relents. The reluctant Captain he is giving way to a duty he values more.

“Very well,” he says. “To the border it is.”

Porthos smiles his relief, but the two men get no further in their planning before d’Artagnan himself arrives. War has matured and hardened the young Gascon; he’s no lad any longer, but a man full grown, a soldier at the very peak of his abilities. He smiles as he enters the command tent to report back on his scouting endeavors, and Athos heart lurches again. D’Artagnan is so very beautiful when he smiles, with such news to convey to him - Athos fears to ever see him smile again.

Athos lets the young man deliver his report, gathering himself for the task to come. Once d’Artagnan is finished, Athos hands him the missive from the palace with a slightly shaking hand.

‘What is this?” d’Artagnan asks, taking the parchment from his commander while scanning Athos’ face curiously.

“It came from the palace earlier today,” Athos replies, “An urgent directive from the Queen.”

D’Artagnan frowns, looks from Athos over to Porthos, who tries to muster a small smile but fails miserably.

“The Queen?” the Gascon repeats, his eyes dropping finally to the letter in his hand, he starts to read it before Athos can tell him anything more, and the way his face changes, from simple curiosity to disbelief, anger, despair and grief is the most gut-wrenching thing Athos can ever recall seeing.

He crosses the distance between them instantly - drawn to be close, to be physical in his support of his young friend. Gripping d’Artagnan’s forearm tightly, his words are laced with fervor and belief, “You will go at once,” he says. “It’s but a day to the border, Porthos will accompany you. Once you are back in France you can reach Paris in three days if you ride carefully and do not overtax your horse.”

D’Artagnan doesn’t appear to be hearing him; Athos shakes him slightly until finally his musketeer raises dark, damp eyes to his.

“This letter is dated six days ago,” he says shakily.

Athos nods.

“What if . . . .?” d’Artagnan’s voice breaks, but he gathers himself. He would surely know if his wife was gone, somehow he would just know. “I didn’t know,” he says instead, his voice pained with incredulity. “We haven’t seen each other since the day after we married. All her letters and not a word did she breathe. Why wouldn’t Constance tell me she was with child, Athos? Why didn’t I even know?”

It’s a valid question, Athos thinks. But one for him to ask later, once he’s seen her and she’s recovered. God, she has to recover. “You know now,” he says, “And now you must go,” he urges. “Your questions can wait until later, when Constance can answer them for you herself.”

But d’Artagnan doesn’t become a whirl of furious activity as Athos would have expected. Instead his head drops to his chest, eyes squeezed tightly shut he seems overcome with some terrible pain.

“I barely remember my mother,” he whispers. “She died shortly after giving birth to my younger sister. Then the baby passed away a few weeks later, she was too small and weak to survive.”

Athos sucks in a breath, he’d known his young friend’s mother had passed away when he was small, but he didn’t know this. To face it twice . . .

“Constance lives. Your daughter lives,” he says passionately. “Believe it d’Artagnan. And hold onto that belief until you can see it with your own eyes. Your wife is strong, she won’t leave you so easily, and any child of yours is bound to fight to stay alive.”

D’Artagnan nods shakily.

Athos turns him and pushes him towards Porthos, “Now go,” he says, instructing them both, “Stay safe, go quickly and . . . return when you can.”


	2. Chapter Two.

**Chapter Two:**

* * *

 

Athos sees his friends off just a few minutes after shooing them from the command tent to pack a few meager essentials in their saddle bags. 

He keeps the goodbyes short - a hard brief hug for each man, whispered instructions for Porthos on trying to keep d’Artagnan’s fears from overcoming him.  Then he lets them go with a curt nod, poker face, and a final reminder for Porthos to return swiftly once their youngest brother is safely on French soil once again.  You would never know it’s one of the harder things he’s ever done – watching them ride away.

 He keeps vigil until they’re just a dust cloud in the distance and then Athos turns back towards his tent and the men under his command.  He paces through the encampment distractedly, wishing for Aramis again with each booted step and feeling more isolated than he has in years.  The melancholy turns his feet in a set direction, one the captain knows he shouldn’t tread – not under any circumstances.  Still - he takes the path that will lead him to her anyways.

 Tabita is cooking, as she ever is. Her countrymen would label her a traitor - helping the invaders, but since Athos rescued her from a group of Spanish soldiers’ intent on rape, ‘Beth’ wants only to remain near him. 

  She looks up at his approach, delighted smile curling her pretty mouth, blue eyes twinkling, and Athos feels a rare if sad smile curve his own lips in response, it’s unusual - the effect that she has on him.  She’s little, and fair for a Spaniard, speaks just enough French to communicate, and every time he lays eyes on her Athos knows how wrong it is of him to allow her to remain here. 

“Athos,” she greets him, holding out her slight hand for him to take. 

  The musketeers’ Captain hesitates for a moment, but ultimately reaches back; taking her hand he twines it into his arm.  Beth steps into his side and looks up at him and Athos recalls a vivid memory of Constance doing the exact same thing - outside the chapel on the day of her wedding.  He looks down at Beth but sees instead his friend’s beautiful wife, glowing with love, so excited to finally be joining her life with d’Artagnan’s, and so grateful to him for agreeing to step in where her father would not and give her away.

  He blinks and the memory fades, Beth’s face replacing Constance’s but the same grateful smile looking up at him still.  His face must telegraph his disquiet for her arm tightens around his and she shakes him slightly, eyebrows rising as she struggles for the French words to ask him,

  “What troubles you?” 

 Athos shakes his head; he needs a distraction, not to talk about it.  So instead he does something very foolish, something surely much more Aramis than he, he dips his head towards hers, Beth’s eyes flare in recognition of his intent, but then she pushes him away before he can do this thing she already knows he’ll regret.  She tugs her arm gently from his; blushing and confused she fusses with the shabby, worn fabric of her simple dress.

 Athos sighs.  “I’m sorry,” he apologizes clumsily.  “That was selfish and impulsive of me.”

At his voice, she meets his gaze, eyes troubled and awash for a moment with something infinitely sad.  She studies him for a long time, finally looking behind him, her focus searching through the throng of soldiers clearly seeking his closest companions.

“Where?” She asks, “Where Porthos . . . D’Artagnan?”

“To Paris,” Athos replies.  “D’Artagnan’s wife gave birth to a baby daughter.”

The news has Beth all smiles, face lighting up.  Athos thinks perhaps d’Artagnan has talked with her about Constance, talking about her always seemed to bring her so much closer for him.

Athos cannot smile back though, and with his gloomy expression Beth’s own delight fades, he tries to explain.  “The baby came early.  Things are . . . not well.”  It seems the words are no easier to speak now with longer knowledge of the events, than they were an hour ago.

“You fear for them?” she asks.

Athos nods.  “For _all_ of them,” he replies.  “D’Artagnan-“ He doesn’t continue.  He doesn’t have to.

Beth holds out her hand for his and Athos takes it, cradles it within both of his.  The look on his face is both wistful and contrite, entirely Athos; pulling you in even as it pushes you away.  So Beth stays steadfast and still, she simply lets him hold her hand quietly, hoping it will comfort him.

 

* * *

D’Artagnan is silent as he and Porthos head towards the French border with as much speed as they can, given the need not to overtax their mounts, and the care with which they must make the treacherous journey. 

 

Porthos feels like he’s trying to pay attention to everything at once.  Their surroundings, the possibilities for ambush, signs of any other soldiers, yet he’s most acutely aware of his youngest brother and the heavy cloud that seems to have subsumed him.

Stealing another quick glance behind him, Porthos tenses at the hard look on d’Artagnan’s handsome face.  D’Artagnan is sunny by nature.  Always laughing, always smiling, mischievous, always looking for the positive.  It’s rare to see him sullen or withdrawn – though he has been quieter of late as comrades have fallen and injuries have piled up.  Porthos has seen him often of an evening pouring over Constance’s letters, callused fingertips caressing the paper, losing himself within the words his wife has only recently learned to pen for him.

The sight made him envious then - to have that, _real l_ ove, pure and deep, an endless emotion.  But this - this is the other side of it, Porthos realizes. The side he’s seen eating at Athos’ soul, lost love darkening his demeanor until he drowns himself in drink.  Athos always has to drag himself out from under the weight of it; Porthos hands tighten unconsciously on his horses’ reins, unable to stand the thought of it becoming that way for d’Artagnan.

A bullet whizzes by his ear, snapping his attention back as it slams into a boulder.  Fragments of stone splinter into the air and Porthos’ horse rears and then stumbles before regaining her footing and veering towards the tree line a half league towards the northeast of them.

“Head for the trees." He hears d’Artagnan yell from behind him.  Another shot goes wide, hitting the ground a few feet from them, and Porthos pushes his mare into a full gallop as d’Artagnan’s midnight gelding outpaces him and races ahead.

Porthos doesn’t look back for their attackers, time enough for that when they’ve hit cover.  He just stays consciously behind his brother and prays that if any shot finds its mark today it hits him.

 

* * *

 

The Queen of France paces anxiously outside the bed-chamber of her best-friend and tries to ignore the sting of tears that seem to be constantly on the verge of falling these past few days.  Behind her she’s aware of the scrutiny of her lady-in-waiting, the subtle displeasure and disbelief that the Queen of France is not abed at this hour and is instead restless about the health of a servant - beloved though that servant is known to be.

But Anne couldn’t care less if the woman finds her behavior unseemly.

After the Dauphin - and his father, Constance d’Artagnan is to Queen Anne the most important person in her life.  Both confidante and substitute sister, Constance is as her name, a steadfast presence and source of support.  Unfailingly loyal and practical, Anne knows the deep debts she owes her friend are ones she can never repay.  Worse - now when Constance needs help the most – Anne is practically powerless to aid her.

The baby shouldn’t have come yet, and the odds are not great that her letter to Athos has gotten through.

The door to the bed-chamber opens and the Kings’ latest head physician trundles wearily through.

“How is she?” The Queen asks, years of training stilling her feet that want to rush forward whilst imbuing her voice with as little fear as possible, as much regal command. 

The doctor is learned and well regarded, but he wasn’t best impressed at first with being asked to wait on a common servant.  Anne has hopes though that these last few days he’s been won over by Constance’s youth and beauty, her obvious strength of character.

Doctor Sauveterre chews on his lip; looking thoughtful he shakes his head slightly.

“There is a little change, your Majesty,” he says guardedly.  “Her fever hasn’t broken, but the heavy bleeding has eased.  What remains is normal for a woman after giving birth – you would know this as a mother yourself.  She is young, but until the fever breaks it would be unfair of me to tell you that we can be optimistic.”

Anne fights to keep her voice steady and wins.  “What of her daughter?” 

The doctor looks grave.  “The infant is small and frail.  Almost impossible to feed, and her lungs are congested.  It might be kindness your Majesty to simply let the poor thing go quietly.”

Anne feels her face change, iron control slipping she lets her outrage show.  Lets the full force of her horror and disgust at the mere mention of the idea flood fully across her lovely features, it has the desired effect almost immediately.

The Kings’ physician back pedals frantically.

“Of course, maybe I’m being too hasty.  If it’s Gods’ will then the child will pass on, my job of course is to do everything in my expertise to keep the little girl alive.”

Anne steps close, places her arm on Doctor Sauveterre’s arm.  “If that baby were mine, I would expect no less of you than I do now,” she tells him softly, raising her eyebrow she adds, “I’ve sent for the baby’s father. D’Artagnan is the King’s champion and personally commissioned Musketeer - you would surely prefer such a man to be in your debt, Doctor?”

The implication is clear.  _‘Do all you can because you do not want this man as your enemy.’_

“I will check on the child again now, Majesty.  You can be sure I will see she is attended to tirelessly.  I will come back and assess Madame d’Artagnan in the morning – if you’ll excuse me.”

Anne nods regally.  “Thank you.”

Making a decision the Queen turns and dismisses her sleepy lady-in-waiting, before gathering her skirts and hurrying through the door to check on Constance for herself.  Approaching the bed she finds a parlor maid diligently mopping her friend’s fevered forehead, the young girl looks up, flustered to find the Queen herself, but Anne can’t be bothered right now by expectations.  She just smiles and holds her hand out for the cloth, shooing the girl to the side she seats herself on the bed, eyes scanning her friends’ beautiful face for any signs of awareness.  Picking up Constance’s’ left hand, Anne wraps it tightly in her own, before she takes over slowly trying to cool away the fever burning through her body.

Constance tosses in her unaware state, eyes moving rapidly beneath her lids, the creases in her brow telling Anne that her thoughts are anything but easy.  Her mobile lips move often, forming the same shapes over and over, even as no sound escapes them.

Anne doesn’t need to hear to know what she’s saying though.

“He’s coming,” she tells her, tightening her grip on her best friend’s too hot hand, “I’ve sent for him, Constance.  Athos will send him.”

Constance’s only response is to mouth the word again, “ _D’Artagnan_.”

 


	3. Chapter Three:

**Chapter Three:**

* * *

D'Artagnan's horse reaches the tree line ahead of Porthos, and slows to barely a canter as her rider forces her to go deeper into the cover the small forest can provide them. He checks behind him to confirm the presence of his brother, and is relieved to find Porthos exactly where he should be. He catches Porthos eye as he continues to nudge his horse forwards.

"That was too close," Porthos breathes breathlessly, "How deep do you want to go? I don't think these trees stretch for much over a league; we'd be in the open again then. Might be better to find a spot somewhere ahead that we can defend and see who's coming after us?" he proposes.

There's short pause while the younger man considers it.

"Agreed," D'Artagnan says finally. He blows out a frustrated breath, biting his lip almost savagely, his expression is absolutely murderous and Porthos sympathizes. At best this is a delay for the young Gascon, and makes his arrival in Paris later than he would have hoped. The worst case scenario is unthinkable.

Porthos strategizes rapidly - they need a place they can defend, preferably from all sides. A hundred feet or so ahead of them the sunlight shines more brightly through the canopy of trees – must be a clearing of some short. He indicates it to d'Artagnan and the pair of them push their horses onward - when they reach it, Porthos smiles with grim satisfaction. They've come across a small canyon with a narrow floor that forces anyone traversing it through the gully at its base, and there are numerous rocky outcroppings they can use for cover if they climb. Their issue is merely hiding the horses until they can be safely retrieved. For that they'll either have to pick a spot this side, or preferably on the far side and then double back on themselves.

Porthos points the way ahead and watches as d'Artagnan follows his line of sight and arrives at the same conclusion. Both men can now hear faint sounds that must be their attackers approaching, definitely the muffled hoof beats of several horses - most likely more than three but it sounds like a patrol, a handful of men rather than a whole regiment of soldiers. That gives them a fighting chance. The two musketeers hurry forwards through the narrow passageway - the timing is going to be very tight.

Thankfully the gulley is fairly short and on the far side of it where the ground evens out, Porthos and d'Artagnan dismount and secure the horses quickly out of sight. The pistols at their waists are already loaded and ready to fire, but each man takes additional gunpowder and ammo from their saddle bags, as well as the long musket secured to the saddle of each horse.

Now they must separate, each must pick a path that will climb the opposite wall of the canyon to the other; so they clasp hands tightly before they do. Their musketeer motto is something unuttered since that day at the monastery so very many months ago now, when Aramis refused to come to war with them. It may feel wrong to say it without him but as Porthos and d'Artagnan lock eyes it's still there in the silence between them - that unswerving commitment to get each other through or die trying.

Parting, they climb then. Their pursuers can be heard clearly now, so each musketeer scrambles to find a high position that will be good for defense, preferably where they can still see each other. Once they've succeeded, then they settle in – as ready as they'll ever be.

D'Artagnan takes their last spare moment and looks skyward, and with his eyes on the heavens pleads with God for his mercy. He begs in whispers under his breath for a chance to return home to see his love - that when he does it's to find both her and his child still living.

Below them six Spanish soldiers enter the clearing.

* * *

Queen Anne wakes to the feel of fingertips ghosting across the back of her hand. It startles her to wakefulness and she is dazed for a moment, before it dawns on her that she's been sleeping in a chair at her servant's bedside. Light spills through a crack in the heavy damask curtains covering the palace window, and Anne scans the twilit gloom - surprised to discover that she's unaccompanied. Blinking rapidly, the queen shrugs off the claws of sleep, her tired eyes locking then onto her dearest friend's face.

The fingers reaching for her are Constance's, and a tentative joy catches Anne up in its arms to find that her confidante is awake.

Constance is flushed; sweat beads yet on her forehead - clearly the fever that's plagued her since shortly after her daughter's birth hasn't broken yet. But her eyes are fully aware, her chapped lips are moving. Anne gathers her wits and leans closer, fingers fumbling until they grasp tightly onto Constance's searching hand. A hand that – thank heaven, feels cooler than it did the night before

"I'm here," she tells Constance softly. "Oh my dear, it is so good to see you finally awake."

D'Artagnan's lovely bride frowns, her blue eyes darting around the dim room seeking, before alighting again on the queen's beautiful face. "My baby?" she asks urgently. Her voice is weak and roughened, but it's the first time in days that Anne has heard it and the fact that Constance is aware enough for speech suddenly seems everything encouraging.

Anne smiles, "Oh, Constance," she says.

Constance tugs at the queen's hand.

"My baby?" she asks again, "My baby girl. Please, Your Majesty – where is she?"

For a moment Anne feels helpless. Unsure as she is of the time, and with no servant close at hand, she has only news from last night to convey. Though she is certain Doctor Sauveterre will have been true to his word and done whatever he could for her friend's daughter, it might not have been enough and the last thing the queen wants is to be dishonest here.

"She's in the care of the king's physician," she answers truthfully, her tone gentle and even. "He's been instructed to care for her as if she were my own. Let me call for a servant to stay with you, Constance, and I will go myself to see how she is."

Constance swallows and tries to sit up, but her body is too weak to manage it and her head falls back against the pillows.

"Rest," Anne admonishes. "You have been gravely ill, Constance. Your body is weak from the fever. You must stay abed and let us care for you. Please trust me to ensure that all that can be done for your daughter will be."

Constance closes her eyes momentarily, when they reopen they are awash with such guilt and pain. "Does she really still live?" she asks, voice so desperate that Anne's heart squeezes painfully. "She came too soon, and she seemed so small."

The queen raises the hand that she's holding to her lips and keeps her eyes focused on her friend's pleading face. "She was fighting for her life before I fell asleep in here last evening," she says carefully. "But as she is every bit you and d'Artagnan, Constance. In my heart I have to believe that means she fights still."

The younger woman's eyes well with heavy tears at the mention of her husband's name, they slide down her flushed cheeks like rain. "I've failed him," she whispers, it sounds pleading, like a confession.

Anne's eyes widen. "Nonsense," she retorts firmly. "Sometimes babies come early and there is nothing that can be done for it. Sometimes they are lost before they have the chance to be born at all. God's will is unfathomable in these moments I grant you, but you Constance – you carry  _none_  of the blame for this. You must have faith I beg of you. Do not despair."

Constance stares at the ceiling and gives a soft shake of her head. "I miss him  _so_  very badly," she whispers, speaking of her beloved husband. "I worry for him every day. In all my dreams now I lose him, Your Majesty. I dream he is killed in the war and our baby dies and . . . "

The queen's heart breaks at the sound of her confidante's anguish. Constance is so optimistic, so hopeful by nature, and suddenly she knows exactly what the younger woman needs. Pushing to her feet the queen squeezes her friend's hand and then drops a kiss on the top of her head. "None of that," she says - before adding, "I'll be right back, I swear."

Hurrying out into the palace hallway the queen runs straight into a maid clearly on her way to Constance's room. Startled, the poor girl almost drops the pile of cloths she is carrying as she sinks into an ungainly curtsy.

"Your Majesty," she says, "Forgive me, I was just on my way back to you and I-" She seems about to explain further but Anne cares not for that right now, she raises her hand and the girl falls silent.

"Stay with Madame d'Artagnan," the queen instructs. "Her fever is not gone so keep her cool and resting."

The girl nods, "As you instruct, Majesty."

"And tell me – where is Doctor Sauveterre?"

"With Madame d'Artagnan's child and the wet nurses, Majesty," the maid answers, "In the palace nursery."

_So the littlest d'Artagnan still lives._

Anne allows herself a one small breathe of relief and hurries to find them. When she arrives in the nursery she checks first on the Dauphin – who is toddling around in the corner watched over by his governess. The queen scoops her son up and kisses his chubby cheeks, hugging him tightly with the heart of a thankful mother, before she returns him and seeks out the tall form of the king's physician. Locating him the next room, she is astonished to see him cradling the delicate, dark-haired infant girl so gently in his arms.

The doctor looks up at the sound of Anne's approach, the pleased smile on his face widening when he sees her. The queen realizes she's never seen the man smile before, and it strikes her how much it suits him. How different he appears in demeanor. "Doctor Sauveterre?" she asks incredulously, her myriad questions contained in the lilting syllables of his name, her feet stop moving, she stares at him stunned.

"Your Majesty," he answers softly, closing the short distance remaining between them he turns his body to show her the tiny baby nestled securely in his arms.

Queen Anne stares down at Constance and d'Artagnan's child with a heart as full as she's ever experienced. The baby is awake and staring up at her, dark eyes in the most perfect heart-shaped little face. She has an abundance of black hair – just like her father, his lips too, Anne notices, and her mother's pale skin and perfect nose.

"Oh," the queen gasps, eyes filling with tears and smile curving her mouth, "She's precious."

Doctor Sauveterre nods, "I was mistaken, Your Majesty," he confesses sincerely. "She is small and not out of the woods yet – not completely. But her lungs have cleared and the wet nurses are having some success getting her to feed and she's . . ." he stops, just stares at the child in his arms almost in awe.

"She's what?" Anne prompts.

"A true fighter," he answers simply. "Most babies I've seen who come early like this perish. But this little girl, I can't explain it - what I have seen this last night, Majesty, except to say that God himself must have given her the strength to be here.

Anne smiles, "She has the heart of a musketeer," she muses.

The king's physician laughs softly and Anne feels herself warm to the man even further. She reaches out to run a gentle finger down the baby's soft cheek, and when she catches hold of the child's tiny fingers her best friend's daughter grabs on tight.


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four:**

 

* * *

 

The rock behind d’Artagnan’s head explodes as the ball from a musket hits it, sending shards of stone flying in all directions into the air.  The young musketeer ducks instinctively, the sharp sting of a fragment as it slices into his cheek barely registering, too focused as he is on reloading and returning fire.

He hears two more shots from Porthos’ direction before he completes readying his own weapons, rising in a fluid motion he aims and discharges both with an accuracy and speed that even Aramis would find impressive. Returning to partial cover, he scans the gulley at the base of the canyon below him for any remaining Spanish soldiers; seeing only corpses he counts quickly - six of them – thank heaven.  But just as a sigh of relief is about to escape him, d’Artagnan hears two further shots in quick succession, they echo through the canyon then into the clearing beyond before silence descends again - and an eerie silence at that.

_Porthos!_

D’Artagnan debates with himself frantically.  If he calls out for his friend he might alert whoever fired that shot that he’s still there.  That’s fine if that person is Porthos, but since all six soldiers they’d previously counted are now dead in the gulley below, there exists the possibility of someone else.  A hostile someone else, and if that’s the case then Porthos either needs help or . . .

The young Gascon gives his head a quick shake; nope, no going there until he’s certain.  He reloads both his pistols quickly and efficiently, then as swiftly and silently as he can, d’Artagnan scrambles back down the canyon wall and crosses the gulley with watchful and silent footsteps.  Picking a path up other side causes him a moment’s deliberation.  He needs cover, and he needs to be quick, following an arc that will lead him to where Porthos was last seen but allow him to approach that place preferably from above. His heart is pounding as he climbs as stealthily as he can.  He tries to push it back, the thought is of no use but if Porthos is . . . if Porthos - well then it’s on his head for allowing Porthos to accompany him.  Athos would only have granted permission if they’d both feared he’d be reckless in his haste to get home to Constance.  If he were a better soldier, he if could be relied upon to think things through more, well then Porthos wouldn’t even be here.

D’Artagnan feels queasy for a moment; swallowing it down he hastens his pace.  Once he’s certain he reached a point higher than where his brother last was he turns his path downwards again.  He can hear voices now, but he’s unable to pick out actual words.  Still, he’s certain he detects the deep pitch of Porthos’ voice, the short stutter of sounds giving the distinct impression of cursing. It makes him smile but briefly.  A cursing Porthos is at least an un-dead one, but he has company, so d’Artagnan unholsters both guns as he creeps ever closer.  It’s another fifty feet or so before he comes across them, eyes widening then narrowing fiercely at the sight of Porthos prone on a narrow rocky ledge with a caped man looming over him. 

The stranger is blocking him from Porthos’ eyeline, so d’Artagnan scans the surroundings quickly, unable to detect anyone else he strolls forward, both his weapons raised.  “Make any further movement towards him and I’ll blow your head off,” he says coldly, a deadliness in his tone that even if the stranger doesn’t speak French still translates.

The caped man responds by raising both hands obediently and indicating that he’d like to turn around.

“Do it very slowly, Monsieur,” d’Artagnan responds, “If you reach for a weapon you die where you stand.”

He thinks the stranger nods – hard to tell with the hood covering his head - then he pushes carefully to his feet with his arms still raised.  He turns slowly until finally he’s facing the young musketeer.

D’Artagnan’s mouth drops open, he blinks, certain for a second that he’s surely dreaming this – it can’t be.  The word falls from his lips like grace, like a benediction, gratitude and joy cover it completely.

“ _Aramis_ . . . ?”

Aramis smiles and it’s like seeing the sun breaking through the clouds on a stormy day.

“Aramis, “d’Artagnan says again, “I’m not seeing things, right?  Is it really you?”

Aramis nods, dropping his arms now he’s no longer in danger of being shot, he crosses the distance separating the two of them and opens his arms wide.  D’Artagnan falls into them, wrapping his brother up tight.  “Oh my God,” he breathes against the back of Aramis’ neck, the elation he feels as his brother reciprocates the embrace immediately filling his eyes. “How is this real?  How . . . why are you here?”

Aramis rocks him gently for a moment, clearly as glad to see d’Artagnan as his little brother is to see him.  He gives the younger man a tight squeeze before he releases him.

“God, sent me,” he answers, somewhat cryptically and at d’Artagnan’s bemused expression Aramis hurries to clarify.  “Just six days ago I was still at the monastery,” he begins, “Still convinced that was where I belonged.”

“So what changed?” D’Artagnan interrupts with a shrug of his shoulders.  “It must have been a hell of a something,” he adds, “Because we _begged_ you, Aramis.  When war was declared and we came to collect you – you turned us away almost blindly.  We needed you but all our pleas and arguments . . .” He stops.  There is bitterness in his voice that he dislikes.  He’s thrilled to see Aramis, and that makes conflict painful.  Dropping his gaze to the rocky ground beneath his feet, d’Artagnan scuffs his boot along it.   “I’m sorry,” he says.

Aramis locks a large palm around his brother’s forearm, “Hey,” he says gently, until d’Artagnan looks at him once more.  “No apology necessary.  I know my choice then must have baffled you, it’s been baffling me ever since and that’s exactly why I’m here now.  I have struggled every day, d’Artagnan.  Convinced myself anew every day that the vow I’d made to God - to live my life in his service, could only be fulfilled by being a monk.”

“But something changed?”

Aramis nods.  “Everything changed.  Six days ago I woke from the most vivid dream.  I’ve dreamed of all of you often.  My old life - I missed it.  But that was my penance I believed, and then the other morning it was different.  I dreamed that I returned to you and on waking I just knew this was what I was supposed to do.  It was _so_ urgent the feeling, _so_ compelling and so strong that I felt to ignore it would be to defy God himself.  I went to see the Abbot and he knew, he knew by the look on my face what I was going to do and he blessed me, d’Artagnan, he told me God would guide me on my way home.”

D’Artagnan is floored, six days ago the Queen wrote to him calling him home and now Aramis is here to take his place.  Aramis who stumbles across them on his route south to join their regiment, Aramis who knew he was needed now more than ever.

Just then there is a disgruntled groan from the ledge where Porthos is still laying and the two musketeers turn as one to focus on him.

“I’m bleeding here,” the large man grumbles, “All the catching up can damn well wait, yeah?”

Guiltily, d’Artagnan rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside his friend as he scans anxiously for the wound.  Porthos’ left thigh has been nicked by a either a bullet or a flying piece of debris, it’s bleeding profusely but the wound is long rather than deep and in no way life-threatening.

“You can sew that closed right?” he asks Aramis over his shoulder, unable to contain his smile when Aramis drops alongside him, tutting like old times that no longer feel far away. 

“Porthos, my friend, how have you ever survived without me?”

* * *

Athos listens to the latest scouting report with as attentive an ear as he can manage.  Once the seasoned soldier in front of him is done, Athos nods sagely and hopes he’s at least absorbed the important bits.

‘Thank you, Duval,” he says, dismissing the older man with a nod.

Duval leaves the command tent and Athos sighs heavily, rubbing a tired and dirty hand across his eyes.  He feels old and yet simultaneously too young to be in command, missing Treville and his steady, fatherly presence  severely. Treville is a born leader, as Athos is certain d’Artagnan will one day be, whereas Athos himself is reluctant at best - comfortable leading his closest brothers certainly, but an entire regiment of men?  It harkens back to his days as the Comte de la Fere, he knows.  Command like this, so many people depending on him for their lives, it doesn’t sit easily – it never has, especially alone like this without Aramis, Porthos or d’Artagnan close at hand.

He feels naked without them, vulnerable and ill at ease, where in their company he’s as comfortable in his own skin as he ever manages to be.

Sighing again Athos catches sight of the grime on his hand and studies it critically.  Raising its twin he studies that too and decides perhaps he might feel more human and more command-worthy if he wasn’t such a filthy, bedraggled wretch of a man.

Gathering a clean undershirt and small clothes, Athos makes his way through the fading light towards the small lake abutting the regiment’s encampment.  He wanders along the shore line a short distance, close but far enough to provide a little privacy.  He’s stripped down to his small clothes when he hears it, the lilting cadence carried on the early evening breeze.  It’s not a happy song, not exactly, bittersweet and full of longing if he had to put a feeling to it.  The language suddenly registers as Spanish and for a moment, Athos freezes, the soldier in him on alert, then he recognizes the voice and the tension drains from his torso and takes up residence in his heart instead.

It’s Tabita who’s singing.

Athos can’t see her, and it’s not like he’s shy exactly, but he’s in a state of undress so he dives into the water, long, powerful strokes taking him a good distance from shore before he resurfaces, slicking his hair back from his face with a rake through from his hand.  Scouting the shoreline from this clearer vantage point, he still doesn’t see her slender form, and if anything the soft refrain she’s still singing is louder now than before - puzzling. 

Well, if can hear her she’s certainly close somewhere, and if she’s singing softly she is obviously safe.  Athos lets it relax him.  He floats on his back, eyes closed content just to be captivated by her simple, lonesome song.  It’s about love, lost love perhaps; he recognizes the words ‘amor’ and ‘perdido’ in among all the unfamiliar ones. He can relate, yet it hurts him that she should have experience with it too.

He knows so little about her really - merely what he’d felt it imperative for him to know.  That she has no family to speak of, no-one who would come looking for her or seek to protect her.  And when he’d learned this it was because he was seeking people to reunite her with, not because he himself cared to know.

He cares now.

It seems so wrong to him that someone so lovely and giving and easy to be around has no-one in the world that cares if she’s alive or dead.  Her generosity of spirit alone should have guaranteed her loyal friends, a loyal lover or husband.  She should belong to someone and have someone belong to her – he wants that for her, in moment’s even wishes it could be him.

Her song ends and Athos opens his eyes, a small smile gracing his lips, spirits lifted.  Treading water again he searches once more for her, mouth growing dry as he sees her now, standing on the water’s edge in what must be an undergarment, it’s a bare slip of a dress.  She doesn’t see him and before he can alert her to his presence she dives gracefully into the water and disappears below the surface.

Athos doesn’t know whether to remain where he is or swim away.  She has this unerring sense when it comes to him, whether she knows it or not she’ll be heading his way.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five:**

* * *

With his supplies retrieved and his horse now waiting with his brother's mounts in the canyon below, Aramis finishes sewing the gash in Porthos' thigh closed. He ties the end off with a flourish and smirks as Porthos finally stops grimacing. Bandaging the wound tightly he seems pleased when no blood seeps through. "All better now," he says with a soft smile, patting the bigger man on the shoulder in sympathy.

Porthos rolls his eyes, and moves from his prone position to a seated one.

"Can you ride?" D'Artagnan asks him quietly, poorly disguised worry in his voice. He's clearly agitated, and Porthos nods immediately in response. Pushing to his feet he feels it like a wave washing over him, the urgency the young man is feeling to be on their way again. Porthos doesn't blame him.

"What's the rush?" Aramis asks raising an eyebrow in curiosity, "The Spanish patrol for this area is dead, and night will be closing in on us soon. We can continue more safely in the morning surely?"

D'Artagnan looks at the floor - clearly debating something; he shuffles nervously from foot to foot.

"Aramis…" Porthos begins, but d'Artagnan interrupts him.

"He's right, Porthos. You should make camp, the two of you. The border is only a few more hours' ride; I'll go on alone from here. In the morning the two of you can get back to the regiment together. Athos will be thrilled. I'll send word on my return when I can." D'Artagnan turns to go with a tight smile but a strong hand wraps around his upper arm and pulls him back. Porthos' face is thunderous.

"I'm fine, and we're coming with you," he says determinedly, catching d'Artagnan's gaze with his and making a face that brooks little argument. "To the border I said. You'll not make a liar of me now, Brother."

The young Gascon's face softens with affection. "Porthos, it'll be okay. I'll be cautious, I promise."

"Does somebody want to tell me what's going on?" Aramis asks, hands on his hips and eyebrows raised. "You two aren't just out here scouting are you? Come to think of it, why would you be this close to the border when all efforts would surely be to push further south forward towards Madrid?"

"Not scouting, no." Porthos replies. "Seeing this one to the border safely," he says, nodding towards their youngest.

"You've been recalled to Paris?" Aramis asks.

D'Artagnan nods. "In a manner of speaking," he says quietly.

Aramis studies the twin looks of quiet distress on his friend's handsome faces and suddenly he feels it. "Oh my God," he breathes, "Its Constance – isn't it."

D'Artagnan's face crumbles and Aramis' heart breaks, for a moment he fears the very worst but his younger brother's spirits are not broken, he's already seen that. Closing the space between them he cups d'Artagnan's face in his large hands, "What?" He demands gently, "Tell me what's going on?"

But words seem to be stuck in the younger man's throat.

"The Queen wrote to Athos," Porthos says after a moment, answering for him. "Constance gave birth to a little girl just over a week ago. The baby came early – she's struggling, and Constance has been struck down with a childbed fever. The Queen thought that perhaps if d'Artagnan were there . . ."

Aramis nods, comprehending immediately. "Constance is so strong," he says passionately, forcing d'Artagnan to focus on him. "She'll fight to recover – you know she will. God, will have been watching over her,  _and_  your daughter, d'Artagnan, and you know the Queen will have ensured they're in the safest possible hands."

"It's just . . . I didn't know," d'Artagnan tells him brokenly. "That she was pregnant. I didn't know. And now I have to get back. . . " He breaks down then, as he's tried so very hard not to do since first reading the Queen's letter and Aramis simply holds him through it. The Gascon senses Porthos come close, a strong steady hand lands carefully on the back of his head as he leans on Aramis. Their unwavering support and love surround him and d'Artagnan is finally able to let the tidal wave of grief, sorrow and worry he's been holding back poor out of him.

Its cathartic and much needed, and after it's free he feels stronger and so much steadier than before. Still sick with worry and anxious to be on his way, but better for sharing his torment with those who understand him best and are closet to him.

"Thank you," he tells them both, grateful, dark eyes rimmed with damp lashes. A tremulous smile finds his full lips and is mirrored on each of his friend's faces.

"We'll all push onward to the border at once then, yeah?" Porthos asks, standing tall and resolute and clearly ready to shoot down any assertion that he shouldn't be riding.

His two companions nod and echo him.

"Together," they reply in unison.

* * *

Queen Anne hurries back through the Louvre towards Constance's bed chamber. At her heels is both a maid carefully carrying the d'Artagnan's tiny baby, and Doctor Sauveterre who refuses to let the child out of his sight. The Queen is anxious for Constance to see her daughter with her own eyes - now that both the babe and her mother have seemingly turned a corner for the better. And the King's physician thankfully agrees that both can only benefit by being in company with one another.

There is a surprise party waiting for them however before they get there.

Minister Treville hovers like a nervous bride in the corridor outside the large double doors leading to the Queen's wing of rooms – among which Constance's is located. The former captain of the Musketeers looks drawn and weary, there are dark circles underlining his normally vivid blue eyes and it ages him.

He looks up anxiously at the Queen's approach, before bowing deferentially before her.

"Minister," Anne says warmly, for she holds the man in the highest regard. "This is a surprise, but it is good to see you."

"Your, Majesty," Treville replies. "I've come to inquire after Madame d'Artagnan? I've been so caught up with matters of state that I've only just been informed that her child came early and that she's unwell." His manner is his typical gruff soldier pragmatic approach, but Anne can tell from his twisting hands and shuffling feet that beneath this gruffness he's truly worried. Since the Musketeer regiment left Paris for the war with Spain, Anne has often glimpsed Treville in Constance's company. The fatherly rapport he's always demonstrated with his soldiers had obviously been extended to include d'Artagnan's young bride with her husband being so far away. Seeing them together always made Anne smile, the Musketeers are truly a family unit.

"Constance is improving," she informs him, before she looks over her shoulder and almost gleefully motions for both the maid and Doctor Sauveterre to come forward. "But come; see the child for yourself, Minister. The perfect image of her parents is she not?"

Treville looks startled for a moment, seeming to notice the other's standing behind the Queen only now. As Doctor Sauveterre approaches the two men silently acknowledge each other briefly, before the physician retrieves the babe from the maid's arms and cradling her protectively brings her closer for Treville to see.

Anne watches as France's Minister for War, one of the toughest and most stoic men of her acquaintance practically melts at the sight of his youngest musketeer's tiny daughter. His weathered face loses all its stern, tired, drawn qualities, becoming soft and warm and paternal instead. The Queen marvels again at the magic power this delicate little girl seems to possess as she witnesses another man falling under her spell.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Treville says with such heartfelt relief in his voice that Anne can only like him more. "Please convey my best wishes to Madame . . . to Constance," he corrects softly. "Tell her I look forward to seeing her up and about again soon."

Treville bows and turns to leave before Anne stops him.

"Minister, wait . . ."

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

Anne stares at him guiltily for a moment, before deciding that she needs to confess to him what she's done. "You should know that I sent for him," she says quietly but still with an air of regal command.

"Sent for whom? Your Majesty."

"D'Artagnan," Anne replies. "Right after the baby's birth, when it seemed very possible that we could lose them both - I wrote to Athos, pleading for him to send d'Artagnan home before it was too late. I thought that if Constance knew he was coming, well that she at least might hold on long enough to see him. I know we are at war, Minister and that only you or the King should . . . but I-"she stops.

"I see." Treville answers, face giving nothing of his thoughts on the matter away. "Very good," he says at length.

"Good?" Anne repeats.

Treville nods with a small smile. "You've just saved me from having to concoct an excuse to do it myself, Majesty. Thank you." Anne finds herself shaking her head as she watches him stride away. She hadn't actually hoped for his support of her actions – just his understanding perhaps, but nevertheless she is very grateful for it.

"Come, Doctor," Anne says focusing back on the matter at hand, as she sweeps through the double doors and continues on her way.

* * *

Athos stays where he is in the end, unsurprised when Tabita emerges from beneath the darkening water a mere twenty feet from him. She doesn't see him at first, greedily sucking in a breath after a fair time without one, she tips her head back and bobs there, her pale skin ethereal in the light from the setting sun.

Deciding he might as well announce his presence, he calls out to her, "Hello there."

He startles her badly. Tabita almost propels herself clear of the water as she goes to make for the shore before the owner of the voice registers and she spins about again, eyes seeking him.

" _Athos_ ," she says reprovingly, "Scared me."

"Forgive me," he calls out, shrugging his shoulders. He dearly wants to swim closer now that she's out here. Feels pulled towards her in fact, a tug - low in his gut, a siren's call, but as ever he resists.

"What are you doing out here?" she asks, not swimming any closer herself. Athos doesn't blame her; she seems very aware - judging by how low in the water she's gone, of her state of undress.

He smiles and shrugs. "Just - getting clean," he says simply. "Your song was very beautiful."

The lovely Spaniard smiles back, "Gracias, my mother taught me - after my father die."

_Ah._  Athos thinks - loss and love, the words he'd recognized. "You were a child?" he asks.

Tabita nods, "Si, a child. Still a child when she and my brother die of a sickness. Was long ago now though, doesn't matter," she says dismissively.

Athos shakes his head, frowning. "It matters that you're all alone. It matters very much," he says disagreeing.

"Why?" Tabita asks pointedly, pinning him with a look that dares him. She studies him silently and Athos feels his face heat. He really shouldn't open up any topic with her that leads into personal territory, he knows he shouldn't. It's a minefield that can do nothing but blow up in both of their faces but he always seems to find himself saying something dangerous anyway.

The silence stretches on between them and Athos starts to feel very silly just treading water and staring at her, so he's about to say something about getting back to shore when she disappears beneath the water again leaving him all alone. He looks about him but she doesn't resurface and as the seconds tick on he starts to panic a little. Where on earth did she go?

It's another minute before she pops right back up where she was before, gasping and then laughing at the stricken expression on his face. Before he can think it through he's closing the distance between them with strong, even strokes, only when he's right beside her does he stop and tread water again. "That wasn't funny," he says sternly. "Dive down too deep and there are weeds in the lake you could get caught in, you could drown."

Tabita's eyes widen as she takes in his flashing eyes and the thin line of his lips, then she scrunches up her face at him. "No one would care," she says, stating it matter-of-factly, a careless offering so obviously believed that for a moment all Athos sees is red.

"I'd care," he refutes hotly, moving closer though he doesn't really realize it.

"Why?" She throws back, a challenge in her voice now. "You feel me like a burden anyway, like another weight on you. Solo soy otra responsabilidad. Uno demasiados. You think I don't know this?"

"No that's not . . ." Athos shakes his head, loving and hating how damn perceptive she is.

"Si," she insists. "Prefiere que me vaya."

"I don't understand you," he replies.

"I say I prefer to go," she answers, "Better to go than weigh on you, Athos," she says sadly.

But this isn't what he wants.

"I don't wish you to leave," he tells her. Reaching out; he seeks and finds her left arm under the water, wrapping his fingers around her bicep. She's so little his large hand completely encompasses it. "Don't leave," he pleads softly.

"Why?" Tabita asks again, looking up him with wide eyes that blaze with such an honest need for a real answer that there's only one thing he can really do – answer honestly. Athos tugs her flush against him in the water, his free hand burying itself in the tangles of her long, wet hair so he can bring her mouth to his. He kisses her sweetly, gently, trying to tell her without words that she's important - that she has value to him. He means to end it there too, let it go no further, but when she opens her mouth beneath his, fire licks up his spine and through his veins and Athos loses control of the situation. He kisses her hungrily then, passionately, because he  _is_  passionate and she's so damn lovely and gentle and everything he's not supposed to have.

Her arms go around his neck; her legs go around his waist, and together they lose themselves in a stolen moment as the sun slips quietly across the horizon.


	6. Chapter Six.

**Chapter Six:**

* * *

Night has fully fallen, lit only occasionally when the moon peaks through clouds that scud at a hectic pace across the dark sky.  Three dark figures dismount from tired horses, when their feet hit the ground each of the men is all smiles for a moment.

D’Artagnan drops to one knee and reaches out a palm laying it flat on the ground, silently he gives thanks to be on French soil once more.  He hadn’t realized until this moment just how very homesick for his homeland he’d become.  A large hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes lightly, d’Artagnan looks up and nods at Porthos, pushing to his feet he grins.

“It’s good to be in friendly territory I know,” Porthos says softly.  “You’ll be safe from here, my friend.  But please tell me you’ll go no further tonight.  Stay, camp here with us then you can be on your way at first light.  Your horse can’t carry you any further without rest anyway and you know it.”

The young Gascon wars with himself for a moment before he acquiesces, Porthos is right.  And though he’d love to just push onwards towards Paris, if he makes his mount lame in the process it’ll only add further delay – and that he cannot countenance.  “Agreed,” he says wearily.  “It’s been a long day and we’ve made good progress considering everything that’s happened.  I’ll push on again in the morning.”

Porthos flashes him a pleased smile and limps over to a large and conveniently flat boulder, before sinking down onto it with sigh.  “Good,” he affirms, “Now what we got to eat?  I’m starving.”

* * *

Athos swims back to the shore with Tabita, once the water is shallow enough he stands and strides, smirking to himself only slightly when she has to swim further than he does because she’s so little. 

Tabita catches it though, that tiny smirk, nothing more really than the slight quirking of his lips beneath his beard, but she pokes her tongue out at him anyway.  Refusing the hand he then gallantly offers to help her onto the beach, the obstinate creature pulls up the sodden hem of her under garment and makes her own way onto the sand.

Athos shakes his head, headstrong, stubborn, lovely women – they’ll be the death of him yet.  This thought causes a sharp pang in his heart as images of Anne go through his mind, which then flits on quickly to Constance and her unknown state.  He pushes them back forcefully, some things just cannot be changed, and he does not wish to dwell – at least not right now anyway.

The sky has grown quite dark, but some light from the fires and the sounds from the camp drift on the breeze and serve to remind Athos that any of his men could discover them any moment.  He searches in the gloom for the pile of his discarded outerwear, picking up his soft leather doublet he crosses to where Tabita is standing – shivering.  And without asking or even offering he wraps it around her, holding it closed with his hands firmly at the opening he effectively traps her in front of him.

“Beth,” he murmurs softly, until she looks up at him, eyes wide and uncertain, longing and sad.

“Should go,” she says, pushing back slightly to encourage him to release her, “Que estoy hacienda aqui?” she says under her breath.

“A moment . . . please?”  Athos pleads.  He is well aware that he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing here, but he finds that he cannot just let her go after what’s occurred between them, without at least trying to tell her that he doesn’t regret it.

Tabita nods, but says nothing further; Athos shifts his grip on the leather in his hands, releasing the left one so that he can gently cup the side of her face.  “You are so lovely,” he says quietly.  “You don’t weigh me down, Beth.  When I’m near you – it’s complicated yes, but somehow you make things . . . better.”  He smiles at her softly, blue eyes open and honest, hoping she’ll accept what he’s saying for the simple truth it is.  He has no guarantees to offer, no idea even of what happens next, but she needs to know this.

She stares up him, studying him quietly in the poor light for a long moment before she replies.  “I’m glad,” she says, “For me too.”

Stretching up on her toes, Tabita softly brushes her mouth over his until Athos can’t refuse the invitation and he frees his second hand to cup the other side of her face.  Holding her head carefully between his hands he kisses her with a tenderness he’s never felt before in his life, then brushes kisses over every inch of her face until she starts softly laughing, her eyes bright and sparkling.

“I go,” she says in the end, pushing at his chest ineffectually until Athos relents and releases her from his hold only to snatch her fingers up within his. 

“Thank you for tonight,” he says earnestly.  “It feels like a gift.”

The lovely Spaniard blushes, smiling.  “De nada - things will be alright, Athos.  You will see,” she tells him.

God, he really wants to believe her.  Letting her go he watches as she quickly gathers her dry outer garments, shaking his head at her when she goes to remove his doublet in order to return it to him.

“It’ll keep you warm until you return to camp and can change into dry things.  I can get it from you later.”

“Si,” she nods, “Buenas noches, Athos.  Dulces suenos.”

“Tomorrow,” he replies, and there’s a promise in his tone he doesn’t hear.

* * *

The Queen of France is practically bursting with joyful expectation by the time she reaches Constance’s bed chamber, Doctor Sauveterre and the maid carrying the baby d’Artagnan on her heels.

Slipping quietly through the heavy door, Anne nods at the maid she left in charge of her friend’s care, before hurrying to Constance’s bedside and reaching for her hand.

Constance is dozing, but stirs as Anne seats herself beside her on the bed, eyes fluttering open and landing on the Queen.  Anne’s presence takes a moment to fully register and then immediately fear creeps across the planes of Constance’s beautiful face.

“No fear, my dear,” Anne hurries to reassure her. “I have only wonderful news for you.”

At this, Constance noticeably relaxes.  “The baby?” she asks.

Anne’s beatific smile widens and she turns, motioning to both her followers to fully enter the room.

Doctor Sauveterre approaches first, nodding to Constance as he crosses to the far side of the bed and clinically picks up her other hand.  He measures her pulse and notes that though she’s still nursing a fever – which bothers him, she undoubtedly seems much brighter.  He smiles at her.  “Madame, I am very gratified to see that you - like your daughter are doing much better.” 

“Then where . . . ?”  Constance suddenly spies the maid waiting patiently and cradling a small bundle in her arms, it stops her mid sentence.  Her mouth falls open slackly, eyes instantly swimming with tears.

The Queen can bear it no longer, releasing her dear friend’s hand she pushes quickly off the bed, and crosses over to the maid, who carefully hands over the tiny infant in her arms.  Anne brings the child to her mother, unable to control her own tears of joy as she sees them coursing silently down Constance’s flushed cheeks.

Sitting herself as before, Anne waits as Doctor Sauveterre helps Constance to sit up.  He expertly fluffs pillows and places them to support her, enabling it so that she can safely take her daughter into her arms.  Anne then hands over to the new mother her precious cargo, watching enraptured as Constance stares in wonder at her newborn daughter while the baby d’Artagnan gazes up into her mother’s face.

“Oh . . . she’s so much like him,” Constance whispers at length, her fingertips brushing lovingly through the baby’s jet black hair.  She smiles, her eyes lifting to Anne’s, “Even the texture is the same, silky just like his.”

 "Don’t you see yourself in there too?”  Anne replies, laughing softly in amusement.

Constance blushes, shrugging slightly.  “She’s very pale skinned - that’s like me I guess.  But mostly I just see him, and that’s simply perfect to me.”  Turning to Doctor Sauveterre she asks, “Is she really okay?  Will she live?”

The king’s physician smiles paternally.  “We can definitely be encouraged by her remarkable progress, Madame.  Your daughter has already proven to have a tenacious hold on life, there is no reason that I see to be anything other than optimistic.”

“I told you she was a fighter, Constance,” Anne remarks happily.  “I would have been surprised by anything less.  I declare D’Artagnan is going to adore her.”

Constance nods, a fresh batch of tears slipping free of her swimming eyes.  “He will be the most attentive father ever – you’ll see,” she gushes, “for he has the biggest heart of anyone, and the most passionate nature.”

Moving her gaze from the baby to Anne she looks wistful and slightly sad.  “I swear I dreamt that you told me he’s coming,” she says, “I keep hearing you say it – in my head – that d’Artagnan’s coming home to me.”

Anne smiles, reaching over to cup Constance’s cheek just briefly.  “Oh that wasn’t a dream, my dearest friend.  I sent for him almost immediately after the baby came.  You both seemed in such grave danger and . . . well I couldn’t shake the belief that if he were only here – then somehow everything would be okay.  It seems a little foolish now I guess, and there is no way to know for sure if my message to Athos has gotten through . . . “

“It’ll have gotten through.” Constance’s tone is nothing but steadfast belief. “If you sent it with a musketeer, Your Majesty - it’ll have gotten through.”

“I did.”

Constance’s face lights up and she looks so incandescently happy in this moment that the Queen is almost blinded by it.

“Then he’s coming,” she says.  “Athos would never refuse to send him to me, and d’Artagnan would move heaven and earth if he had to - to get home.”

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven:**

* * *

Dawn is just creeping across the horizon when d’Artagnan is awoken by Zad nuzzling the bottom of his boot where it peeks out from the bottom of the shabby blanket that he’s curled up in.  The gelding is at the very end of the rope that tethers him to a nearby tree, he butts his head again and d’Artagnan squints at the horse in the grey morning light.  Zad’s dark brown gaze seems impatient – like he senses his owner’s predicament and is trying to tell the young Gascon that he’s rested enough and is ready to be on their way again.

 “Yes, yes, alright.” D’Artagnan murmurs soothingly to the large, black animal, “Easy, boy.  I’ll gather my things and we can go.”  Stretching to wake up his body he disturbs Aramis who’s curled up next to him, the older man only smiles when his eyes blink open though, before he turns to look over at Porthos who is snoring on his other side.  D’Artagnan can’t help but smile fondly at his two brothers, at how the special bond between Aramis and Porthos is still evident even after time apart.  They all missed Aramis terribly, all felt like a part of them of was missing - but Porthos, d’Artagnan knows, was hurting more than any of them without his truest companion at his side.

 “Let him sleep,” d’Artagnan tells him in a loud whisper.  Aramis turns his gaze back with an eyebrow already raised.  “I promise to wake him before I leave,” d’Artagnan clarifies, “I mean he’d kill me if I didn’t, but I have to gather everything and saddle up – so it’s okay to let him rest.”

Nodding, Aramis carefully pushes to his feet, gently draping his blanket over Porthos once he’s standing - to compensate for any loss of warmth.

“Is he fevered at all?” D’Artagnan asks worriedly, “Or showing any signs that wound’s gotten infected.”

Aramis shakes his head.  “He’s fine,” he says reassuringly.  “So spare no worry for us my young one.  Focus solely on your journey home, because I’m sure, Brother, that only the very best of news awaits you.”

D’Artagnan however, looks unconvinced. “You can’t possibly know that,” he says, and for a moment he seems blindingly angry, then it’s gone “Sorry.  I’m sorry, it’s just . . . I’m frightened,” he says, confessing quietly, and Aramis intakes a breath sharply for his youngest brother never seems anything less than fearless.  “I will travel to Paris as swiftly as I can,” d’Artagnan continues, “yet if . . .  if what’s waiting for me there is the loss of her – of them – then honestly I want only to delay the knowing of it.”

Aramis bites his lip, empathy for his brother’s plight coursing through him.   Everyday of the months he’s spent deliberately apart from them, he’s lived with the fear of knowing they’d gone to war.  Worried that they’d be injured and he wasn’t there to treat them, worried that they’d be three when they should have been four and how that might handicap them in endless imaginary situations.  He’d wanted to know they were well and safe, to be reassured of it daily, but if he’d received news that any of them had perished . . . Oh yes, Aramis can understand only too easily how some tidings a person simply wouldn’t want to hear. 

But clearly empty platitudes are not helping his brother’s state of mind either.

Closing the space between them, Aramis grasps hold of d’Artagnan’s left shoulder, squeezing until the younger man’s almost reluctant gaze lifts to his face.  “All our hopes are only for the best,” he says gently, his dark eyes completely sincere.  “To lose what we cherish most – d’Artagnan there is no-one who doesn’t fear it.  You travel with our love for you, for her, for your daughter, at your back - and if my friend, _if_ God has called them to him, your brother’s love will still be there.”

D’Artagnan looks at the ground.  “I know,” he says very quietly, “and I am grateful for it.”

Sensing the younger man can’t speak any more of it; Aramis lets his shoulder go and settles for lightening the somber mood by ruffling d’Artagnan’s hair.  “Come on,” he says decisively, “Zad’s getting impatiently, I’ll help you saddle up.”

Ten minutes later and d’Artagnan is ready to leave.  He kneels next to Porthos’ still slumbering form and shakes the big man awake.  Doesn’t take much doing considering how deep asleep he’d appeared to be, but Porthos rouses quickly and sits up fully alert.

“It’s barely light,” he protests, upon realizing that d’Artagnan is ready to leave. 

“Zad’s rested, I’m rested.”  The young musketeer replies.  “My wife is waiting, Porthos – I have to go.”

Porthos pushes to his feet, grimacing only slightly when the stitches in his injured thigh protest.  He grabs hold of d’Artagnan and bear hugs him, “Be swift, be careful,” he murmurs in his ear.  “And get word back, ‘bout Constance and the babe – yeah.  We’ll be worrying.”

D’Artagnan claps him on the back and manages a smile as he pulls back from the embrace.  “I will,” he promises.  “Take care yourself, getting back to camp – and thank you . . . for coming with me.”

Porthos grins, shrugging, “Course.”

Aramis reaches for d’Artagnan next, holding him tightly for a moment before reluctantly letting him go.  “God, go with you,” he says warmly.  “We’ll be waiting.”

The young Gascon smiles, takes a moment to breathe and then quickly mounts his horse just as the sun finally peeks properly over the horizon, a shaft of sunlight lights the road ahead.  

He doesn’t look back.

Porthos and Aramis watch until their little brother is just a cloud of dust in the distance.

“You think that Constance and the babe . . . that they’ll be alright?”  Porthos asks, turning to look at Aramis with worry heavy on his handsome face.

Aramis shrugs.  “I think that we have to pray they will be, Porthos - for all our sakes.”

* * *

Athos wakes to the sounds of the encampment just stirring to life.  Shortly after dawn there is always a change of the personnel on watch, the night shift handing off to the first of two day shifts.  Status reports are given, the men start moving around, it’s a comforting bustle in the early light, another night having passed without attack or incident.  It won’t last, (his latest set of orders from Minister Treville are to begin a forward push towards Madrid) - but it should be comforting, and it has been up until now and the dreams that have plagued him this past night.

Dreams that have served to remind him of all that lays ahead – all his orders truly mean he that he  _must_ now face

His duty is crystal clear.  It’s why he’s had his men out on so many scouting trips recently, to ensure the Spanish regiments in this area have been pushed back far enough to allow for a movement of their entire encampment.  He believes that they have been, and when Porthos returns it’ll be time to go, but that move forwards will bring heavily increased risks with it once again. 

The closer all the French forces get to Madrid, the harder the Spanish will come at them and the greater the losses the regiment will have to face. 

So while last night might have been a gift, in the cold light of day letting Tabita continue to remain with a regiment on the move is not a risk Athos is willing to take.  He cares too much, too deeply to take any further chances with her safety.

He  _must_ give up the sweet respite that her presence is - the balm that she seems to be to his soul because in the end she’s a Spanish civilian.  If he puts aside the soldiers who thought to take advantage of her, the truth is that she’s in her own country and therefore relatively safe.  But if she’s actually caught aiding them as she has been then she could be hanged for treason. Or if she’s present during an attack she could be killed in the crossfire - either way, with the regiment moving deeper, the likelihood of either event increases exponentially and Athos can no longer deny the reality of it.

He dresses quickly, and goes in search of her.  Porthos should return before nightfall, he’s going to have the regiment prepare to move at first light tomorrow, so today - today is all that’s left in her company . . .

It would be a crime to waste it.

Just as he suspected she would be, she’s boiling water and stoking fires and preparing to feed all she can.  Serge has been grateful for some female assistance these last weeks and God knows all the men have appreciated it too.  She smiles and blushes adorably when she spies him and Athos’ heart lurches before he shuts his quivering feelings down. 

Enjoy just a little more time with her, he tells himself.  Just a little more and then do what you know is right and leave her safely behind.

“Athos,” she greets him with affection in her voice that would make a stone warm. Then rounding the cooking fire, she reaches for his hand and slips her little fingers into his, tugging him to sit so she can present him with a meal.  He does as he’s bid, brushing a gentle caress across her knuckles, content for now to let her fuss over him while he absorbs as much about her as he can into his memory. 

* * *

Constance wakes to a cool hand against her flushed cheek and a head that feels completely fuzzy.  The light hurts her eyes when she opens them and her vision swims before settling on the concerned face of Doctor Sauveterre who’s hovering next to her.

He schools his expression the instant he becomes aware of her scrutiny, a mask of professional calm and detachment settling over his patrician features.  “My dear, Madame d’Artagnan,” he says kindly, “how are you feeling this morning?”

“Constance,” she replies trying to sit up, “it’s just, Constance.”  Her efforts result in her vision blackening around the edges and a wave of vertigo hitting her out of the blue.  She sinks back onto the pillows with a weak moan, wondering why this is happening to her.  Yesterday, she was feeling better, happy because the baby is stronger, improving all the time and she’d finally felt present again after a few days of not really knowing where she was.  Today that feeling of sinking beneath again has returned with a vengeance,  it scares her, she blinks furiously trying to get her eyes to see, when they do she locks them on the physicians face.

“What?” she asks, “What’s wrong with me?”

Doctor Sauveterre tries to reassure her.

“You are still recovering from the birth, my dear.  The fever will break in time; it’s nothing to fret about.”

But Constance isn’t convinced.  Her body feels so strange - hot and heavy and she can’t think clearly without an extreme effort of will.  It’s like swimming through a thick soup to find the words she wants and vocalize them, reality has warped round the edges and she’s sinking . . . sinking.

She grabs the doctor’s hand.

“Look after my baby,” she pleads before her eyes roll back in her head and she effectively passes out.

Doctor Sauveterre tries to rouse her, but Constance is unresponsive.  Beads of sweat have appeared along her hairline, her breathing is shallow and rapid, and when he grasps the inside of her wrist her pulse thumps at an elevated pace.  Frowning the physician decides he doesn’t like this turn of events in the slightest, whatever infection this young woman is fighting hasn’t receded after all and is clearly getting the best of her.

“Better send a message to the Queen,” he says, turning to the attending maid, “and open up all the windows, let’s cool this room down as much as possible.”

Turning back to his patient, he rolls up his sleeves and removes his jacket, before he strips back the bedclothes leaving Constance covered by only her night garments.  Grabbing a cloth from the bedside table he rinses it in a bowl of water and methodically begins the process of trying to cool his fevered patient down.

“Don’t do this,” he murmurs to her beneath his breath, quietly berating the young woman in his charge.  “Please, my young Constance.  Your child  _needs_ her mother; your husband needs his wife.  Please, young lady – help me.  Fight harder.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
